Easier
by unfold
Summary: This is a letter, don't think otherwise just because I'm rambling incoherently. Jess writes to Rory. Set at end of season 3. I crumble without reviews.


I just woke up. It's Tuesday morning, early. God, it's early. Three, maybe. My clock is broken so it just says any random time it wants for the most part. But, it's early, I can tell. I don't know why I'm awake. Or why this is being written down. Who knows what makes me do anything I do these days. It's all so random. Some days, I sleep right through. Some days I wake up and actually go to work. Some days I smoke. And some days I wake up at three in the morning and write.

This is a letter, don't think otherwise just because I'm rambling incoherently. I've just always thought that letters were too formal. I've always felt that there was some sort of template that I had to adhere to when I was writing a letter. And you know me, I'm not big on conformity. So I've opted for a sort of stream of consciousness theme for this letter. But, that's not entirely true. Stream of consciousness implies that there is no point, that I am randomly writing down what pops into my head. No, this isn't a stream of consciousness letter. Forget I even suggested that it was. It's early. (I get the feeling this will be a running excuse for most things throughout the entirety of this letter.)

It's true what they say in songs, what the TV shows you: It's really fucking sunny out here. In California, I mean. I know somebody's told you where I've disappeared to. But, in case you're not sure, I'm here in California, Venice Beach, actually. My dad lives here. The elusive father figure. The man who gave me my tendency to flee. I don't know what I expected to gain from this trip. Trip isn't the right word. I'm not staying for a week. Or the weekend. I'm staying indefinitely. I guess it was more of a move, though that word seems wrong too. Whatever you want to call it, I don't know what I was looking for. He came to the diner. We barely said five words to each other before he left. I guess I just felt that after a seventeen year absence, I deserved more than a few words and a touching moment while we listened to David Bowie.

He's okay. Although, I'm beginning to see why he left. And I'm almost glad for it. If he had raised me, I probably would've turned out exactly the same, probably worse. It's strange because we're so much alike. More alike than I would've expected, than I would even like to admit. The thing is, he's happy. I don't know what to do with this. I want to hate him. But, he's standing there with this stupid smile on his face and his arm around Sasha (his live in girlfriend, eccentric as hell, but nice enough) and I just can't fight him. I want to fight him. The moment he said those words in the diner ("I'm your father."), I wanted to beat the shit out of him. Just make him feel awful, make him realize what he'd done to me. But now that I'm here, I'm finding it so hard to do any of that. I've been thinking about this moment since I was old enough to understand that he was gone and now…I almost feel like…Jesus, this is probably stupid. I want him to accept me. I want him to look me in the face and say that he made a mistake, that I am his son, that he wants to be my father.

I've got this tiny bedroom. More of a closet, really. But, it's enough for my purposes. Which mainly include reading, smoking, and, apparently, writing letters at three in the morning. Maybe it's strange, but I thrive on this sort of living. I like wandering, not having a permanent home. I like having closet bedrooms. I like staying indefinitely. I like coming and going as I please. That last thing was stupid for me to say, considering who I'm writing to. It's true, though. And I don't mean to say that I like leaving without a word. I just like having the option of leaving when I want or need to.

I suppose this brings us to a number of things that need clearing up. You definitely weren't supposed to be on the bus that morning, in fact I sat around for an extra hour doing nothing just to be sure I wouldn't run into you on the bus. Looking back, I'm glad it happened. For a second, I wasn't going to leave. I wasn't going to go through with it. (You're so goddamn beautiful sometimes and you have no idea, do you?) I should have told you. I should have told you a lot of things at a lot of different times. But, I never did. I still don't know why I kept things from you. Probably because I couldn't prove them right. I didn't want to prove them right. I never wanted to disappoint you. I just wanted you to be happy. Because nobody thought I'd be good for you and I was slowly realizing that they were right. I was lying to you from the start. And I hope you hate me now. You deserve to hate me. I deserve to be hated. Do you get it? I left. I pretty much abandoned you, and for what? Because I wasn't going to graduate? Because I was ashamed? Because I suddenly felt the need to go running after the father I hadn't seen my entire life? It's stupid. So fucking stupid.

What I mean is, I'm sorry. So sorry. And that sounds so worthless right now.

But, this isn't about trying to get you back. Or even trying to get you to understand why I did the things I did. It's done, it's over. I don't expect you to ever want to be with me again. I just want to tell you things.

Like: I never slept with Shane. I've never slept with anyone, for that matter. And I know that must seem shocking to you. But, it's the truth. I've watched my mother be used by men. I've seen them sneaking off at four in the morning. I've heard her crying in her bedroom. I never want to do that to anyone. So, I decided when I was, I guess, fifteen that I wouldn't sleep with a girl unless I knew I would still be around the morning after.

Like: Sometimes when we kissed, I felt like I would break you. I thought maybe I would hold you too hard and you would fall apart. At the same time, I wanted to hold you as tight as I could because you were real. You felt solid, substantial. (I hate that I am suddenly writing in the past tense here.) I would've been around the morning after but, I guess, that's besides the point. What I mean is, I could never be good enough for you. I could never treat you the way you need to be treated. I just don't know how to do that. Not yet, at least.

Like: Luke has probably been the closest thing to a father I've ever had. I treated him like shit just like I treated you like shit. But, you both took a chance on me. Gave me the benefit of the doubt. Something my own mother couldn't even do. Despite everything everyone was telling you, you were there. This is what I should've told Luke. What he deserves to know. It's not his fault that I left. It's not his fault I flunked out of school. He gave me a more stable home life than I've ever had. I never had to wonder if he would be home when I got home.

Like: When I was ten, my mom bought me this journal and she said to me, "You just write down whatever is going on in that head of yours, okay?" I'm pretty sure she thought I was crazy but she couldn't afford a therapist so she bought me this piece of crap journal to write things down in. Of course, I wasn't crazy, I was just angry at everyone and everything. And when you're a kid and you start acting out or acting violent, it's automatically assumed that you have some sort of mental problem. I didn't but I wrote in that journal anyway. She read it and I knew that she read it. I kept it on the table by my bed in plain view so it would be easy for her to find. This doesn't mean I censored myself. Actually, I wrote exactly what I was thinking, every thought that came to my head, I wrote it down. It was so much easier than talking.

I guess that's why this is being written down. Because it's so much easier than saying this to your face. Because I never could say it to your face. And here I have a chance to read it for myself before your eyes even get a glimpse. With spoken word, you say it and there it is. There's no going back with talking. Hell, if I finish this and suddenly change my mind and don't want you to know any of this, I can tear it up, throw it away.

I'm not going to stay here for long. At least, it doesn't seem that way now. Jimmy says he can't be my father. But, I don't need him to be my father, not in the parenting sense of the word. I tried to tell him that I only wanted him to be there. I only wanted to get to know him. But, I don't see this working out. And I don't know where I'll go after this. I can't go back to Stars Hollow. You have to know that. And it has nothing to do with you. It's just…what I need isn't there. It's not in Stars Hollow, it's not in California. I don't know where it is. But I have to find it, whatever it is. There's this constant emptiness that hits me deep in my stomach. Even with you, it was there. And I don't know what to do but I'll figure it out, eventually.

I'm sure as you're reading this you have that look on your face. The one with your brow furrowed and your eyes full of concern, your mouth twisted just so. Because you think you can fix this, you want to fix this. You can't, though. You fixed a lot of things. But, you can't fix this.

I don't know how to end this. So, I'll just leave you with this: I love you and that's the first time I've told you. And that was so much easier than saying it out loud.


End file.
